


Things That Remain

by SolarMorrigan



Series: Solar's 007 Fest 2019 [24]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: 007 Fest, Angst, Brief Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 09:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19971784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarMorrigan/pseuds/SolarMorrigan
Summary: For Bond, torture has always come from unfamiliar faces, from captors with cruel instruments and short-term intentions.Q's experience has been different.





	Things That Remain

**Author's Note:**

> Day 24! Fills "Torture" on the [Angst Prompt Table.](https://mi6cafe.wordpress.com/007-fest/007-fest-2019-prompt-tables/) Went in a slightly different direction with this one, maybe. Please do heed the content warnings; none of the abuse takes place onscreen, but it is heavily referenced and implied, and the effects of it are shown clearly. If this sounds upsetting to you, maybe pass this one by
> 
> (The brief sexual content mentioned is consensual and reciprocal, but does lead to a triggering situation)

Hands on Q’s shoulders, Bond watched as Q looped his tie together in the mirror. “You look good today. I like the shirt,” Bond said.

Q ducked his head, looking down as he finished putting himself together. “I know I should try harder. I haven’t done anything with my hair, and I could–”

“Q,” Bond interjected, gently and firmly, then waited for Q to look back up and meet his gaze in the mirror. “You look good. You do.”

Denial wasn’t an uncommon response, nor was the defense; Q had learned somewhere along the way that compliments were a gateway to criticism, had learned to react accordingly, to shield himself in some way from the embarrassment by agreeing _no, I don’t look very good, do I?_

He’d been trying to wean himself of the habit before Bond came along, but Bond enjoyed helping – enjoyed paying Q complements freely, enjoyed the little blush and stutter and the little thrill of triumph when Q would just say “thank you.”

Q shook his head. “Right, I – sorry. I’m– thank you. You… look good today, as well.”

Bond smiled, leaned in to kiss Q on the cheek, again on the lips when Q turned his head, before nodding towards the door. “Let’s get going,” Bond said, because he didn’t care much about being late to the office, but Q certainly did.

Quirking a smile of his own, Q nodded, and moved to gather his things for the day.

-/-/-

“No, no, don’t you dare.” Q shoved at Bond’s shoulder, making a decent effort at sounding firm, even as the laughter in his voice undermined him. “I’ve a budget meeting soon, I can’t go looking like I’ve just been snogged.”

“It might encourage them to finish the meeting faster,” Bond offered between kisses pressed to the corner of Q’s mouth. “Or maybe they’ll pay more attention to you.”

 _“Not_ the kind of attention I want,” Q said, this time succeeding in detaching Bond’s hands from his hips and taking a step back.

Obligingly, Bond kept his hands to himself while Q pulled his jacket straight and attempted to brush the unfortunate creases out of his shirt. “Well, do I at least look presentable?” Q asked after a moment, pushing his glasses back up his nose.

“Nearly,” Bond replied. “Your collar needs fixing, though.”

At some point during the day, Q had lost the tie that went with his suit and had unbuttoned the top few buttons of his shirt; it wasn’t a bad look, but not altogether the “professional” Q was aiming for. No sooner had Bond raised his hands to fix it, however, then Q had scrambled backwards, one hand covering his throat protectively.

 _“Don’t,”_ Q uttered, stopping with a jolt when he backed into his desk.

Bond stopped cold. He’d somehow forgotten–

“Nothing– nothing at my throat today.” Q shook his head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s alright,” Bond promised. “I just forgot.”

It was hard to forget when he already had his hands on Q, hard to forget that the first time he’d tried to mark up Q’s neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there and bracing his hand at Q’s nape, Q had very nearly had a panic attack. It was hard to forget in situations like that, that Q was terrified of hands—sometimes of anything—on this throat.

In more innocuous situations, though, it was harder to remember. Something as innocent and easy as adjusting Q’s collar could be triggering, and it frustrated Bond to stumble over it sometimes.

(It frustrated Bond that it was a problem at all, set up a coldly simmering rage in the pit of his stomach, wondering when and why and _who,_ but Q had never volunteered much information, and Bond had never asked; he understood that some things were better left alone.)

Q cleared his throat, recomposing himself quickly. “Well, aside from my delinquent collar, do I pass muster?”

Bond gave Q a smirk, facilitating the change from heavy silence to light banter. _“I_ would certainly give you money, but that may not be what you were going for.”

Q rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” he accused, but he smiled a bit as he said it, and so Bond didn’t argue.

-/-/-

Groaning deep in his chest, Q rolled his hips, caught between fucking into Bond’s fist and grinding against the erection rubbing insistently at his arse. _“God…_ James,” he sighed.

Bond hummed, kissing Q’s shoulder and skipping up over his neck to nip behind his ear. “That’s it,” he murmured, tightening his lube-slick hand around Q’s cock to the tune of his sudden pleased whine; he loved to work Q up like this, spooned together on their sides, working at him with just his hands, to be able to surround him without trapping him and drive him over the edge. “Take what you want. _Good_ , good boy.”

The change in Q’s demeanor was palpable and immediate. He went stiff against Bond – not taut with pleasure, but locked up in discomfort, no longer rolling his hips or moving his hands along Bond’s arms. His breath shuddered and froze for a moment in his chest, and Bond could feel the stillness against his own.

“Q?” he asked quietly, loosening his grip.

“I…” Q took in a deep breath, and tentatively pushed his arse back against Bond’s groin. “You – you can keep going, it’s… okay.”

“Not if you’re this uncomfortable,” Bond denied, releasing Q’s cock entirely and resting his hand on Q’s hip instead, wondering if he should move away.

“It’s _alright,”_ Q snapped, turning to look at Bond over his shoulder. “It’s – I’m fine.”

The flush of arousal was already draining back a little, bleached out by sudden anxiety, and Bond shook his head. “You don’t have to be fine, Q. Whatever I said–”

 _“Don’t,”_ Q cut him off, sliding from the Bond’s embrace and stomping towards the en suite. “Just– don’t.”

The door closed behind him, not quite with a slam but certainly with emphasis, and Bond sighed. Moments later he heard the shower running, and so got up to find a pair of pants.

Nearly half an hour later, Q emerged, swathed in Bond’s slightly-too-large dressing gown with his hair still damp from the shower. He didn’t look angry anymore, expression now sitting somewhere between sheepish and dejected, which might have been worse, because Bond dealt with fits of temper so much better than potential tears, but he knew he would still try.

Q crossed to the dresser, pulled on a pair of pants and a pair of pajama bottoms after that, but remained wrapped in Bond’s robe when he sat gingerly on his side of the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment, “for… for that.”

“You don’t need to be sorry,” Bond said.

Staring at his knees, Q spoke as if he hadn’t heard Bond at all. “He– he used to call me that. When we– when he’d…”

“Q…”

“Feels like ages ago, but for a moment it was right there in my ear.” Q finally looked over at Bond. “I’m sorry, just– please don’t–”

“I won’t,” Bond said firmly; he couldn’t have even said for sure what he was agreeing to. He wouldn’t say those words to Q again, he wouldn’t bring it up, he wouldn’t judge – Christ, if there was anyone who didn’t have room to throw stones about unresolved triggers, it was Bond. But whatever it was he was agreeing to, he meant it vehemently. “I won’t.”

Q nodded. There were no more words, but a little while later, when Q put his hand out into the middle of the bed, lying palm-up between them, Bond took it in his own, and they eventually nodded off that way.

-/-/-

Bond couldn’t even remember what they were fighting about. He doubted if Q did, either (then again, he probably did, know-it-all bastard that he was). It could have been a break in communications at a crucial point, Q needling Bond about his missing equipment, Bond refusing to let medical see to minor wounds, Q refusing to sleep properly while Bond was away – they’d brought it all up in the course of their shouting match.

It was impossible for men like them to leave work at work, to come up with some great divide and not bring the irritation of the job home with them. They tried to get it out quickly, to work their frustrations out and go somewhere private to cool down. It usually worked.

It was working until Bond got up to start pacing and Q shrank back a little. It was working until Bond turned to face Q, arm raised in a broad gesture, and Q flinched – full-body flinched, turned away from Bond with his eyes shut tight, bracing for a blow.

Bond froze.

There was a beat of silence, then Q uncurled, his breathing gone anxiety-ragged as he looked back up at Bond.

Slowly, Bond lowered his arm. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly.

He had never, never wanted to Q to be scared of him, but maybe it was inevitable. Maybe it was just–

“Just give me a moment,” Q broke into Bond’s spiral of thoughts. “Stop – stop looking like you’ve kicked a puppy. Just give me a few minutes and then we can talk about things like the mature adults we pretend to be, alright?”

Bond took in the slight shake of Q’s hands at his sides, the plea beneath the snark, and nodded. “Alright.”

Q was right, Bond could acknowledge as Q moved into the bedroom to have some breathing room. The man was tougher than even Bond sometimes gave him credit for, and really, it was no different from Q giving Bond some space when some small, everyday thing triggered memories of darkened rooms and tied limbs and cruel hands.

Because that was what had happened to Q, wasn’t it? Perhaps he’d never been tied to a chair and beaten, or waterboarded, or anything quite so overt, but for months or years, he’d been tortured as surely as Bond ever had been, by someone who had claimed to love him.

“He’s out of the picture,” Q had told Bond once, and that had been all he’d said on the matter. One day he might tell Bond more, or one day Bond might decide it was time to make his own investigation.

Today, though – today, he did his best to reign his temper back in, sitting on the sofa and considering ways to mend whatever the fight had broken. He couldn’t fix the past for Q—no more than Q could for him—but he could take care not to become one of the people who’d done more harm than good.

It wasn’t much, but it was a start.

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on [Tumblr](https://solarmorrigan.tumblr.com/post/186531309603/things-that-remain-james-bond-00q-day-24), if that's more your jam


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